I Know, I Know, I Look Better In Real Life

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Michelle said she’d lend me her bike while I’m in Santa Cruz, but I’d have to fix the flat first, so on the first Monday after my arrival I took it down to the Bike Church. However, Monday was also President’s Day, and on the door was a note that read:
“Due to Lance Armstrong’s ongoing relationship with Ashley Olsen the Bike Church will not be open today. Oh also, it’s President’s Day! 😊 “
This President is one I’m happy to celebrate, and the lovely volunteers at the Bike Church gave me a good chuckle along with the bad news, so it didn’t bother me that I couldn’t get my vehicle working as soon as I had been hoping to. Kevin’s work was just around the corner, so I dropped off the bike in their backroom and hit downtown.

There had just been a bike race and the main street was crammed with people, but the weather was rude and I was getting cold, so I sought refuge in a matinee session of ‘Milk’, a film I’ve been trying to see since it came out in Sydney weeks ago. My review of the movie; James Franco, marry me. I don’t even believe in marriage, but good God, you might just be worth it. Benicio Del Toro hereby slides down to 2nd place on the list over ‘Highly Shaggable Men’ as Mr. Franco takes over the throne.

The cold that attached itself to me during the road trip lingered in my system for several days, although in a more subdued version. To get rid of the last minor symptoms can be quite hard, but I know the remedy for this physical predicament; light exercise. Being broke I wasn’t about to spend any money on a gym, but I’m also not prepared to go for a month without proper exercise, and since running outdoors is no longer an option due to my shin splint, I need access to a treadmill. By now you all know I’m a very skilled con artist, and I decided to get myself a free trial month at a local gym. I’ve done this enough times to know exactly what to say to get the maximum amounts of days without having to take the tedious tour or sit through their yawn-inducing sales pitch. This time, however, I didn’t even need to work my magic since Michelle had a 30 days free gym-card for me, and in less than 15 minutes I was free to enjoy the gym as I saw fit.

It’s not at all as hard being broke in Santa Cruz as in San Fran, mainly because my two daily activities are the gym and beach volleyball, both of which are free. Also, a recent discovery in the frozen dinner section means I’ll never have to spend more than $2 on dinner during this month. Some health brands were on sale the other day, and because I had no other plans for dinner that very day I picked a few of their vegetarian options, choosing the ones that were high in fiber and protein without skimming too much on the fat. Much to my surprise they tasted great, and I hurried back the next day and bought 10 more. My experiences with frozen dinners prior to this day haven’t been particularly positive, and for $2 I had low expectations, but I’m happy to say I’m now a convert.

The first day my feet touched the sand of Santa Cruz’s beach volleyball courts was one of sheer bliss. I strolled over to court 1 to watch Saint play, and as I was standing there Ben came over and said hi. Next thing you knew I was playing with him, Big Eric and Kim. Zach and Gary showed up a bit later as well, and I was happy to run in to so many of my old acquaintances this first day back on the sand. We played until it got dark, at which point I was starving, so I biked home to grab some frozen din-din before enjoying 4 episodes of Arrested Development, and eventually passing out in a state of exhausted contentment.

I was trying to figure out a way to get to Flagstaff for cheap, but after having missed one ride there on Monday I got discouraged and thought I would actually have to rent a car - perish the thought! That would be more than my daily budget per day just for the rental, let alone gas, food and lodging in Flag. No, renting was simply not an option.
I started thinking that craigslist.org really should have a rideshare section, and lo and behold, turns out they do, so I managed to get in on a ride that was actually going all the way to Flag in just a few days. The driver, Jesse, was going with two other dudes, and he had the genius idea of leaving at night and driving ‘till morning, which made me think of him as quite the mastermind. Sleeping is typically a waste of time we all have to put up with on a daily basis, but this way whoever’s not driving can sleep instead, and the efficiency of this plan impressed me.

When Jesse’s piece of shit Mercedes pulled up outside Michelle and Kevin’s house, with bikes and all other kinds of paraphernalia strapped to the roof, I instantly had misgivings about its endurance for our 11+ hour long drive. My concerns were only fueled (forgive the pun) when Jesse proudly announced that his vehicle ran on vegetable oil. Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m an environmentally aware gal, and I’m all for alternate fuel sources. In addition to that, I have plenty of faith in the potency of the toxic left-over grease from Chinese restaurants, but when my transportation relies on the flawless engineering of some doped out, dreadlocked, patchouli-smelling hippie, I feel anxiety set in. At this point I was committed to the ride, however, since they had come all the way from Oakland to pick me up. My little bag was packed and I had nothing better to do with my night, so I jumped in.

The car had heating but it only offered the option of ON or OFF, so it either blasted hot air with full force, or it was turned off, at which point the car quickly became a drafty icebox. This made it hard to fall asleep, since neither sweating profusely nor freezing is very conducive to rest, but we didn’t have to experience this problem for too long; 4 hours into the drive we had our first breakdown.
While Jesse got out to figure out how to get the darn thing running again, I could feel my feet go numb from the cold, and I started to realize that this thing would not take me to Flagstaff, if it’d even make it to the Arizona border. After 20 minutes of waiting I overheard Jesse say to one of the other guys that he was fresh out of ideas on how to get it running again. Upon hearing that I grabbed my backpack and got out of the car, thinking that throwing my thumb in the air was better than sitting there waiting for what would potentially never happen. I thanked Jesse for the ride so far, and then started walking along the shoulder of the road in the pitch dark night, flashing my cell phone to become visible in an attempt to prevent less observant drivers from hitting me. I was having no luck, and it was getting awfully cold, but after less than a half hour of cursing at all the cars and trucks whose drivers clearly were heart-less fuckers with not even a smidgen of compassion in their rotten bodies, Jesse’s car pulled up next to me. Although I had directed a fair bit of hatred towards this very automobile when it broke down just 30 minutes earlier, I was now terribly grateful to see it. At least it would offer a few moments of warmth for however long its engine would function this time.

I must’ve nodded off for a few minutes, because I remember waking up to the sound of the tires driving across the rumble strip. ‘Shit, here we go again’, I thought, and sure enough, we were having problems once more. This time Jesse tried to start the car a few times too many, and soon I heard the sad sound of a car battery slowly giving up on life. “Yup, yup, that’s my cue,’ I announced, and stepped out into the Mojave Desert, beautifully lit up by the approaching sunrise.
So now I found myself standing on the shoulder of the road at 5AM on a Thursday morning, rubbing my cold legs whenever I wasn’t optimistic enough to hold my thumb out in the internationally acknowledged sign for “Hello, I’m freezing my tits off and I would muchly appreciate a seat in your warm car”. A vast number of un-compassionate souls rushed by just like last time, all of whom will be surprised to find themselves at the gates of Hell after death, with dear ol’ Belzebub stating: “It says in my records that you were doing Heavenly well until you whizzed by some poor hitch-hiking girl on the side of the road in the Mojave Desert that arctic February morning. Bad call, pal."

Eventually a truck pulls over and signs its horn to alert me to this act of kindness. I happily grab my backpack, run to the passenger side, jump in and say hi to Dave, a man with a lisp and a lot to say. We were 40 miles west of Barstow, which meant not even halfway to Flag, and Dave didn’t waste any time on that little golden thing called silence. Despite his relentless babble I managed to nod off, exhausted as I was after having spent nearly the whole night awake, and Dave was kind enough to realize that I needed that sleep, because he didn’t wake me up until we had reached the truck stop in Barstow.
I thanked him for the ride, jumped out of the truck and went inside the gas station to ask for two sheets of paper. On one I wrote “40 E” and on the other I specified “Flagstaff”. I went to the bathroom, washed my face, bought a bottle of water and then placed myself where all the trucks exited from the gas station, holding up my signs.
It didn’t take long before a truck stopped and rolled down the window, asking me if I’d settle for Las Vegas. Not only was this a fair bit out of my way, but the guy also gave me the creeps, so I politely declined. “That’s too bad”, said the guy with a repulsive grin that confirmed my suspicions. “I beg to differ”, I replied.
A few minutes later another truck pulled over, and although this driver didn’t exactly instill me with ease and comfort, my cold feet made the decision for me when I heard he was going all the way to Flagstaff. I justified this potentially risky enterprise by convincing myself it was in my best interest to not get any colder. There’s simply no time for circumspection when one has numb feet to revive, I concluded.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get picked up by some weirdo, you know. You’s a cutie”, said Bob with a broad smile that didn’t contain as many teeth as nature had intended. I looked around Bob’s dwelling to learn more about this troglodyte and was amused by what I found; above the bed was a poster of some bikini-clad girl with a lascivious look on her face, and Bob referred to her as ‘morning inspiration’; there was a litter box for Lucky the cat who lay on the bed, and the bedside table was bare except for - hold on - the Holy Bible.
It was immediately apparent to me that Bob was a creep, and I took a moment to gauge the possible threat of the situation. In short, he was a small man, and in comparison to his tiny frame I felt Amazonian. I estimated he’d never be able to take me down in the unlikely event that it would come to that. The Swiss army knife in my jacket pocket felt good against the palm of my hand, and it filled me with a sense of indisputable protection that made me certain I could handle whatever was to come.

During the 7 hours I spent with Bob I ascertained that truck drivers are a completely different breed, if not a different species altogether. Bob spoke Ebonics despite being utterly Caucasian, he dropped the n-bomb like it meant nothing, and even proclaimed his right to do so by declaring he had nothing to do with what his white ancestors had done ‘back in the day’.
Most everything Bob said elicited contempt that I eventually didn’t even try to conceal, and the barbaric comments just poured out of his ignorant mouth, but I kept my eye on the horizon and reminded myself that it was all just temporary. Having said that, though, the journey felt epic, and when we finally pulled in to the Little America truck stop in Flagstaff I was ecstatic to finally get away from Bob. “You want me to stick around for a while?” asked Bob, and it was all I could do to not laugh at this preposterous idea. “No, you’ve done more than enough for me”, I said while hurriedly climbing down the steps from the passenger seat. “Thanks again!” I yelled while quickly walking away from the truck towards what in comparison resembled Paradise: the Country Host Restaurant, affectionately referred to as the C-Ho. A large Farmer’s Platter with hash browns, toasts, fruit bowl and scrambled eggs costs $3.99, and for once that’s a meal price that fits my budget well. While waiting for my friend to show up I ordered the exact same stuff I used to eat years ago, back when it cost $2.99 and Flagstaff was my home. I was served by the same waitress that worked here back then, and nothing in the interior had changed, which brought on a wave of nostalgia that I'm yet to be rid of. This place will never feel like home, but it will always feel welcoming.

Now I’ve spent a few days catching up with friends, one in particular, and although I was meant to return to Santa Cruz only a couple of days after my arrival, I’m exercising my flexible lifestyle by staying where the weather is better. According to the 10 day weather forecast Santa Cruz will throw cats and dogs on its habitants for several days to come, which means I won't be able to play beach volleyball. Here in Flagstaff I can go hiking almost anytime thanks to the proximity to scenic areas on lower elevation, and the sun has been shining ever since my appearance, so for now, the choice seems simple.

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